Regrettable Favours
by InsertImaginativeNameHere
Summary: Things which didn't happen during 'Haunted', but the episode doesn't make much sense without. Such as Oliver explaining Constantine to Team Arrow, Constantine scrounging a lift from Chas, an expansion on Thea's thoughts about their visitor, Diggle complaining, and Damien Darhk hearing news about who was just in town.


"I don't understand," Laurel had been saying that for five minutes or so now. "How are you going to bring her soul back? Olly, if it were possible, someone else would at least know about it. You're not exactly Damien Darhk around magic, are you?"

Oliver sighed. He wasn't entirely sure this next move was a good idea. Post-Lian Yu, his research on John Constantine (aka a five-minute curious google session a few months back which turned up basically nothing except a shitty punk song and a British newspaper article about a recent murder case) painted the man as something of a loose cannon. Insane was the word used by conspiracy websites on the internet. But there was a shortage of magicians who owed him favours, and if anyone was going to know it, it was that weird Brit he'd met way back, who had first shown to Oliver that there were worlds beyond what he knew. At least, he would _probably_ know. There was no guarantee.

"I know a guy, Laurel. He owes me."

"Elaborate," Laurel demanded, like a good lawyer conducting an official questioning.

Oliver sighed, reluctantly, tactfully deciding to leave out all mention of the island "One time, I met this guy. British. Talkative. He could do incredible things," _Things tattoo parlours would pay good money for_ "I don't know the full extent of his repertoire, but I saved his life and he owes me. It was the first time I'd ever seen magic, so I might just have been easily impressed, but this guy, he is pretty handy."

"You think he could help us?" Laurel's voice was optimistic, and Oliver hoped to God Constantine could deliver "What's his name?"

"John Constantine...I have his card somewhere. He's an exorcist, uh...demonologist, dark arts, that sort of thing. Kind of thing that sticks in the head, you know? I'll give him a call now."

Scrolling through his phone, Oliver found the name and stared at it, preparing the conversation in his head. Cashing in on debts was never a fun conversation, but John _had_ seemed more than willing last time they had met; but then again, that was a long time ago, and a long way away. He pressed call.

"Oliver?" The other man recognised him immediately, a good sign, and when Oliver explained the situation he seemed more than happy to come and help out. Actually he asked whether Sara was hot and sidetracked the conversation onto a completely different tangent but the point was he was going to help. By now, Felicity, Diggle and Thea were just as intrigued as Laurel by this mysterious man of mystery coming to save the day.

"No offence Oliver, but he sounds kinda shady," Dig commented "Can we trust him?"

"Probably," Oliver shrugged "He's on the side of the angels, apparently. Which is why he swears non-stop and smokes like a chimney. At least, I think that's why."

"Sounds like a real charmer," Felicity muttered. "Is he, you know, qualified to do this?"

"What she means is did he go to Hogwarts?" Thea added, and Oliver internally cursed himself for knowing basically nothing about his ally. Great. Now he had to lie and say yes of course he knew John very well, it wasn't like they'd only met properly once, on the island of Lian Yu, aka Purgatory, and of course John could do this spell perfectly well presumably, probably, not-quite-definitely.

Nothing was definite.

This was _magic_ after all. Beating up criminals, they could do, but this was something unknown, and they needed a specialist. A consulting exorcist. Or something like that. It was going to be alright.

 _Presumably._

 **‡**

"What is it now?" Chas asked as John entered the millhouse, looking up from the game of scrabble he was playing with Zed. Yes, the Rising Darkness was all set to destroy basically everyone, what shall we do to stop it? Ask Chas and Zed, they know their spelling. Ha, spelling, spell, _magic_? John had made that joke earlier. Hadn't gone down well. Between the withering looks and Zed throwing a dictionary at his head, these people really didn't appreciate humour.

"I hate to break up the fun but I need a lift to Star City pronto."

"Really?" Chas sounded dubious "Star City? But you hate it. You hate the whole vigilante culture it has there, like you hate Central City for having the world's greatest sprinter, and Coast City, National City, and pretty much every city with a two word name that ends in 'City'."

"That's not true," John felt compelled to add "I hate Gotham and Metropolis as well. Horrible places."

"Technically both of those end in city too," Ever the reasonable one Chas had to pick flaws in the otherwise perfectly constructed argument.

"Alright, _nerd_ ," rolling his eyes, John continued "Got a call from a mate. I say a mate. Saved my life. Owe him. It's important." Chas didn't move "Did I mention it's a really cool favour? Like, it's actually one I want to do, for once. First of all, I've got two words – Oliver. Queen. Yes, that one." Zed's jaw dropped, even she, with her sheltered, weird-cult life, knew who Oliver Queen was. "Secondly – restitutionum. Restoring a soul. Not done that in ages. It's actually quite interesting."

Even Chas looked impressed "When did _you_ meet Oliver Queen?"

"Oh, ages back." John waved a hand dismissively "That arse-end-of-nowhere island he was stuck on. I was looking for this magic Horus stick thing. He saved me from the business end of a particularly pointy trap, and I got to punch him in his pretty face so...all in all, a productive trip."

"All you use that 'magic Horus stick thing' is removing tattoos and getting new ones. Also giving people _new tattoos where they didn't have any before such as I don't know on their forehead,_ the night before they, I don't know, have a meeting with their daughter's teachers. Ring any bells?"

John shook his head innocently "Nope. None. And it does way more than that, but I'm not tellin'. Now come on, Chas, we've got places to be. Namely Oliver Queen's super-secret Green Arrow bunker but you didn't hear that from me. You'll definitely need to wait in the cab on this one, it's _Costume_ business." Tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially, he picked up his bag, and quickly found the resitution ingredients list. As an afterthought, his back itching slightly, he scribbled a sidenote down, struggling to remember the Aramaic for 'dead peacock feather' but getting there in the end. There. That would really mess with their heads. And now it was time to go. Gathering a couple more things, he followed Chas out to the cab and they set off.

To Star City, formerly Starling City. How inconvenient, to rename an entire city just because one person copped it. All the maps, signs, road names, everything had to be changed. If they were going to change it anyway, why didn't they name it something sensible? No, they were after the publicity that came with a celebrity death, hopping on a major bandwagon in order to look like nice, sympathetic people in front of the media. It was a load of bollocks, but you couldn't point that out without looking like a bit of twat for disrespecting the dead, that sort of shit.

It was a long way to Star City.

At least Chas let him control the music all the way there.

 **‡**

"Yeah, okay, I'll see you." Oliver hung up "He's here. I'll go get him. Dig-" he broached the topic cautiously, worlds of distrust still acting as an open chasm between them "Come with?" His 'bodyguard' nodded, and they headed toward the elevator.

The tension in the room was palpable, the raw anticipation. All of them were curious, even Diggle who was playing it off as casual disinterest, instinctive, intrinsic dislike of magic. They all wanted to see what a magician who wasn't a homicidal psychopath looked like. How he moved, how he spoke. What magic was when it looked you in the eyes and introduced itself, with an obnoxious smirk on its admittedly handsome (if annoying) face.

Together, Oliver and Diggle waited until they were at ground level and headed to the entrance of the building. An odd sort of nagging feeling started to plague Oliver, insisting he should warn Diggle about, well, about everything remotely involving John, now that Laurel was out of earshot and he couldn't scare her with horror stories.

"By the way, John's a little...abrasive. He's not your polite, formal kind of Brit at all. He's more...okay, I'll put it bluntly; he's a bit of a dick. Not so bad when you get used to him, a really interesting guy overall but he's not easy to get along with to start with." _And one time he screwed up so badly a little girl died but I'm not going to mention Newcastle because Sara needs help and he's the only person we know, even if his track record is sketchy._

Dig laughed "Relax, Oliver, I've put up with you this long. What about this guy could be so bad?"

"Oh, you will eat those words and I am looking forward to it."

"I'm hurt," came a distinctive voice from the shadows at the corner of the room "There was me thinking you needed my help when all along you just want to gossip like little schoolgirls. Sweet of you, really it is, but I have my own ship to captain, y'know?"

Oliver rolled his eyes. Of course. He couldn't really complain about the sense of melodrama; he too had been known to hide out of sight and surprise people. The thing was, when he did it, it was pretty menacing, all bow and hood and arrow notched to the string. John Constantine came across as something of an anti-climax. A roughly-accented, rude, normal sort of guy. But that was the thing. You couldn't underestimate him based upon; well, everything about him. He was deceptive. As Constantine stepped out of the dark, Oliver got his first good look at him in some time, a slouching, scruffy man, with chaotic hair and...a trenchcoat? A trenchcoat. Away from the island he dressed like Columbo now? Because why not?

"Dig, this is John Constantine."

"Dig?" John smirked.

"Short for Diggle." the bodyguard said in a flat, level tone.

John laughed "That's even worse, mate. That's absolutely bloody terrible, if you don't mind my saying."

"Says the guy called Constantine."

The magician shrugged "Nothing wrong with my name. It's historical. Runs in my family, it does." he smiled a mocking grin "So, Oliver, mate, how've you been? It has been a while."

Oliver couldn't help but smile. He remembered John could be likable, radiating an easy sort of charm; when he put his mind to it, _if_ he wanted to be. "I've been okay. A lot's happened since-"

"Tell me about it," the Englishman lit a cigarette and took a long drag, and Oliver knew he was thinking about Newcastle but there was no way of broaching that topic. "Fuckin' demons getting all apocalyptic hell-on-earth type shit. Been dealing with that shit lately. Whereas you, ha, you've got a whole secret identity and bondage gear to go with it."

"It's...it's not bondage gear."

"Could've fooled me." And he was back to joking, the black humour he seemingly carried with him everywhere making a reprise appearance, no worse for wear despite what he had been through since their first meeting on Lian Yu. "Come on, all that leather. You're telling me you've never worn it while you were getting it on? Not even thought about it? Seriously? What do you bother with it for?"

"Mostly for protection during combat. What do you wear _that_ _coat_ for?"

John grinned "It makes my arse look amazing."

"We did not need to know that," Diggle muttered through gritted teeth, escorting John into the elevator. The exorcist bowed sarcastically, waving his arm in a pseudo-gentlemanly 'after you'. Irritated, Diggle pushed past him and immediately began pretending the man didn't exist. Which was hard, given that he was smoking. In an elevator. Because of course he was! "I am so sorry I doubted you, Oliver. This is just...something else." As he said that, John blew another cloud of smoke which coincidentally seemed to be aimed in Dig's direction. Why? Why was he like this? He wasn't this bad before. A bit of an asshole, sure, but no more than most, and nobody trapped on Lian Yu was at their best anyway. It seemed John's best was a complete and utter douchebag.

Nobody was perfect.

"Excuse me, you can't smoke in here-" Felicity began immediately, as soon as the doors to the elevator opened and Diggle and Oliver emerged coughing. "I'm guessing this is Mr Constantine."

"Just John, luv," John smiled, putting out the cigarette "Since you're so-"

" _John_." It was Oliver's turn to be pushed to the edge now "My girlfriend. Off limits. Or I. Will. Kill you."

"Alright. Got it mate, sorry. I. Can pause. Needlessly. For dramatic. Effect. Too."

Felicity seemed thrown off, but a little amused by it. Thea wasn't even disguising her entertainment (she had acquired popcorn from somewhere, at some point. When? Who knew). Only Laurel was fully sincere, approaching him and extending a hand of friendship. The disreputable demonologist looked her up and down before smiling and accepting the gesture.

"I'm Laurel. Laurel Lance. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Is it? That'd be a first." John said darkly, fiddling with his lighter "You're the sister of the not-quite-deceased, I take it. Heard you giving Robin Hood – bet you get that one a lot, mate – heard you give him the full Spanish Inquisition over the phone. You're much prettier in person, got to say."

"Save it," Laurel snapped, "Can you help my sister?"

John shifted "'course. I wouldn't have come otherwise. I'd probably have faked my death and thus erased the debt in my untimely, and ultimately tragic passing. That's a joke, by the way. You looked like you were about to slap me. I sometimes have that effect on people."

"I'm not surprised," Diggle muttered.

"What do you actually do?" Thea asked, curiously "Olly was a bit vague. He kind of described you like British Indiana Jones without the whip, hat, or any of the Indiana Jones stuff. With magic."

"Glad to know you were so specific, _Olly_ ," the exorcist taunted "If we're done with the whole banter portion of this conversation, you wouldn't, y'know, mind speeding this up a bit. I sort of have a... _thing_ going on. But don't worry, it won't destroy the entire bloody planet and raise hell on earth. We don't have to worry about that, completely forgotten about over here."

"What?" Diggle was, rightfully, outraged. Furious, even. "The world is ending?"

"It practically always is, mate, like I said nothing to worry about. You can just pretend everything's fine and live out your little cheery little life. We can forget about the Risin' Darkness. May as well not even be happenin'." John shrugged, and reached for a cigarette, before Felicity shot him down with a glare. He rolled his eyes "Bollocks."

Taking matters in hand, Oliver motioned John over to the table to which Sara was secured, her prone figure shackled down and kept heavily sedated, lying motionless, seeming vulnerable and fragile, when obviously in actual fact if she awoke she would kill Thea immediately and snap back to normality as if her soul had never been gone. As if everything was fine. That was the other option, and so far as Oliver was considered, it wasn't an option at all. None of them had even thought about it, so far as he knew, unlike their other major consideration; killing Sara.

"You didn't answer the question. What exactly is it you do, and how will you help my sister?" Laurel asked, folding her arms in frustration. They were all just about getting there, really they were.

John Constantine reached inside the pocket of his ridiculous coat and produced one of those business cards, handing it to Laurel. " _That_ is what I do. Good enough for you?"

" _So, what, you're going to do some kind of exorcism on my sister?"_

John rolled his eyes, and launched into an explanation nobody really understood, before proceeding to hit on all the women in the room in one fell swoop.

He really was completely impossible.

 **‡**

After the ritual was done, and everyone was getting all huggy and just adorable, he decided it was probably time to make himself what was professionally known, in the con-artist trade, as 'scarce'. He'd made his goodbyes to Team Arrow: the hypocritically named girlfriend (Felicity Smoak – who wouldn't let him do just that), the muscley one who didn't stop complaining, the cute one with brown hair (to whom he had given his number and been shot down by the tyrannical Green Arrow overlord with the words 'John. My sister. Off limits'). Truth was, he felt uncomfortable around the group, they weren't his kind of people. They were Costumes. Not superpowered, no, but they belonged in that class of people who didn't realise spandex wasn't supposed to be worn away from Comic-Con _._ And they were thanking him, congratulating him, as if he'd done something amazing and wonderful. It was a temporary fix. One day that girl would die all over again, regardless of what he'd done. Just because he hadn't fucked this one up, didn't mean the next one wouldn't be a total disaster. There were a whole host of reasons why he couldn't celebrate and had to get out of this pitifully named city before these no-smoking rules claimed his sanity.

Ha. Now there was a hilarious joke. _Sanity._

Walking with Oliver to the exit, they talked about debts, Oliver offering his assistance wherever possible. _Thanks, but nah. You, mate, are staying out of my catastrofuck of a life. You're going to run around wearing bondage gear saving people because that's your thing. And you're going to stay the hell away from mine._ But he insisted, and having someone who can _actually_ handle themselves in a fight around was, admittedly, useful. That was a favour he was going to mentally file away as long as possible.

For one of those arseholes on their personal crusades against crime, Oliver wasn't so bad. He'd grown up with a silver spoon up a certain orifice, but aside from that, he was an alright bloke.

When he mentioned Damien Darhk though, the air grew cold.

 _Probably the air-con in this secret bunker_ thought John _or a thematic sense of melodrama._

"Any advice?" Oliver Queen asked, and he meant it as well, he really wanted to know what John Constantine thought of the sinking ship that was Star City, now that that wanker Darhk was on board.

"Get out of town, while you still can." John said, ominously, as the doors to the lift closed, taking him up and out. The rats were abandoning the wreckage as it went down, and he intended to go their way, disappear into the shadows with a _bloody cigarette at last thank fuck!_

Chas, the jammy bugger, had been asleep at the hotel the whole time, adding to his points, and so hadn't had to live through that fun little escapade. In the meantime, John really, really wanted to get out of town before Darhk knew he was here. Surviving the week with a functioning cock and both testicles was very high up on his list of priorities right now, and the best way to do that was to get the hell out of Star City. Time to go.

"Wakey wakey!" he sang obnoxiously down the phone to Sleeping Beauty over at the hotel, who hurled a few choice words down the line. "Listen, Chas, something's come up. I know I said we'd hit a couple of the casinos and skim them for a little cash, but basically, there's an evil bastard in town and we're kind of in a hurry before he twigs we're here. I say we, I mean me. So for my sake, get your arse over here now."

"I hate you John, you know?"

 _Yeah? You're not the only one._

No, adding to the ever-growing list, there was now that annoying git with his terrible hair – not Donald Trump, the other one, _Damien fucking Darhk_ , who had not so much been added, more arisen in his other, more immediate list of _concerns_.

Time to go.

He wouldn't feel safe until they were back in the millhouse, and he had a glass of whiskey in his hand.

Looking back at the oh-so-cleverly-hidden-very-impressive-sense-of-grandeur-who-would-ever-suspect-there-was-a-secret-basement building, John smiled and walked away, contemplating whether or not he should blackmail them over this, get a bit of money to make up for the lack of recent games. He decided against it; Oliver was a decent guy, but he did have a bow and arrow. A bow...and _arrows._ Continuing, John made his way toward the hotel where Chas was staying for the night, and towards his gateway out of this godforsaken city. Goodbye Green Arrow. Goodbye Star City. Goodbye Damien sodding Darhk.

And good fucking riddance.

 **‡**

"Well, he was interesting, wasn't he?" Thea grinned, nudging Felicity conspiratorially "I am so filing his number away for future reference. Is that weird, I mean, because he's like...you know, wayyy older?"

"Yes," Diggle said, bluntly, and Thea rolled her eyes. Typical Dig, always seeing the negatives sometimes. "I really, really hope we never have to see that guy again. He just got under my skin."

Felicity was silent for a moment, and Thea wanted to ask what she thought of their...unusual visitor. "You realise he had time to translate 'dead peacock feather' into Aramaic and add it to the list just for a cheap joke? Like, I'm not sure if that's the sign of an evil mastermind or what, but he was weird as heck and manipulative as..." she trailed off "They've not even invented a word yet. He was definitely playing some sort of game. I haven't figured out what it could be yet, but he definitely stole my spare supply of pens."

Thea laughed "His accent was cute though, wasn't it?"

"Speaking entirely objectively, as someone who is currenly dating a very, very attractive man, I can say for definite, his accent was definitely cute."

"In a weird, not what you expect kind of way," Thea grinned at Diggle's obvious discomfort at the conversation "When Oliver told me he was British, I don't know, I pictured someone different. He was actually cool, not you know, boring and stuck-up. Dig, you should've seen your face when he said if it didn't work we'd all be too dead to care. Funniest. Thing. Ever."

"You and I have very different ideas about what classes as humour," Dig muttered.

 **‡**

"Are you absolutely certain?" Damien Darhk asked the Captain of Star City Police. "Blond man, weird British-sort of accent, issues with constant sarcasm and... _tact?_ Did he happen to wear a beige sort of trenchcoat and smoke incessantly?"

"He complained about not being allowed to smoke, if that counts," Captain Lance shrugged "He performed some kind of magic. All the lights in the room flickered and I'm telling you, he was really odd. But whatever it did worked. Sara's okay. Guess you can start using her against me as a threat now."

Silence. Damien looked Captain Lance up and down. "He performed a restitutionum..." Standing, Darhk leaned in, not a particularly menacing figure except when you'd seen what he was capable of "Captain, if you knew who you'd just entertained, you wouldn't be so delighted with the state of affairs. Feel free to go and look Mr Constantine up, you won't find much but what you will...he is a problem. I would really have liked to eliminate that problem _now_ , had I known he was in town sooner. He's not an idiot, not a complete one anyway. He'll have left as soon as he heard I was here. Which means, Captain, he remains a problem, but so long as he makes sure he's problematic elsewhere, it's not really a concern? If he ever comes back, you call me immediately. You have no idea what that man is capable of. I know he doesn't seem like much. But trust me when I say I'm surprised Sara has all of her limbs attached. Would that little Astra were so lucky."

"Who is-"

"Google her. Astra Logue. You won't be so keen to sing his praises then."

Watching the Captain leave, Damien Darhk supressed a cocktail of anger, envy and perhaps a fragment of relief: anger because the chance to dispose of that walking disaster zone was gone; envy at the Captain having met such a notorious magical figure; and relief because, because he was out of town. Darhk knew full well in any potential conflict scenario, there was no way Constantine could have won, but still, mention of him was unsettling, disruptive. Even the most well-prepared plans had a tendency to come unpicked around him.

It was probably a good thing he was still alive. It was definitely a good thing he was not in town anymore. Now what would really be amazing was if Darhk _never had to hear that name ever again..._

 **‡**

 _In a taxi, heading out of Star City, there is a man in a trenchcoat smoking. He is fiddling with a pen he appropriated earlier that night. The driver of the cab knows not to ask what happened, or where the fancy, expensive looking, underwater, zero-gravity pens with laser pointers in the end came from. All sixteen of them._

" _Why did you steal_ _sixteen_ _pens, John?" One would have been explainable. Two, a little odd but it is the full_ _sixteen_ _that takes the cake._

 _The man grins "I needed one that would work in Hell. I hear there's a lot of paperwork down there."_

 _And that's all Chas can get out of him for the rest of the night. But that is John Constantine for you, after all._

 _At least, with him asleep on the backseat, Chas gets control of the music for the first time in far too long. He uses this privilege wisely._

 _He leaves the radio off._


End file.
